Broken Piano for President (15 page)

She squints.

“Cream.”

“Oh. I doubt it.”

“Any milk?”

“Uhm…”

“Sugar?”

She smiles, head shaking. “Darned if I know.”

Deshler sips and winces. Nude, his legs are crossed in an attempt to be casual. Malinta, in a blue and yellow robe, laughs through her nose.

“Why do you talk like that? Are you born-again or something?”

“Stop. Don’t be mean.”

“Seriously,” Dean says.

“You know.”

“Remind me.”

“Because, stupid, I’m a lady. I’m a good person. Or, at least, I’m supposed to be.”

“And swearing’s not—”

“Yes, yes, yes. Don’t rub it in, I know I sound dumb. Eventually, I’ll cut it out all together.” Her finger begins twisting a lock of hair. “Someday you’ll thank me when our kids don’t speak like truckers.”

“Our?”

“Don’t F-ing start.”

“Start what?”

“We’ve talked about this. Don’t act like you don’t know I want a family.”

“Right, right. It’s…ah…too early. Can we please just discuss something else?”

That giggle returns. “Okay, wise guy. I can’t believe you tracked me down last night,” she says through a smile.

“Me neither,” he says truthfully.

“I got
so
drunk with my coworkers at a happy hour. Where did we even run into one another?”

Deshler looks around the room, pretending not to hear. “You have,” he forces down another sip. “A great place.”

“It’s not mine,” she says, squinting one eye. “It’s
Clifford’s
.”

Deshler leans forward and rubs a stubbly chin. Another massive headache isn’t far off.

“Clifford Findlay, right?” Dean says, amazed he remembered the name. Still not sure if he’s ever parked the Bust-A-Gut chief’s car. “Why aren’t we at your place or mine?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“He’s a nice guy?”

“Uh, yeah, Bust-A-Gut’s president, the most powerful man in hamburgers, is just doing this because he’s a nice guy. He’s not kissing your ass or anything.” Her shoulders tighten. “Er, butt…rear.”

“Derrière?”

“Cut it out.”

Dean can’t stop watching the blinding yellow walls. “I’m serious. Just tell me. Your paint isn’t
that
bad.”

“You’ve seen my place enough to know the answer.” She grows red and picks an arm scab. Malinta’s attitude jumps the rails and her face gets dark. “Fine, you want to screw around this morning, here’s an answer. I’m sick of playing this game,” she says, fishing a cell phone from her purse. “Talk to someone who enjoys your little stunts.”

The phone is ringing when Deshler presses it to a throbbing ear. He swears it’s an hour between buzzes.

“Lepsic here.”

Deshler’s confused morning growl says, “Thurman Lepsic?”

“You got him, who is this?”

“Deshler Dean…” The sensation of swimming and sinking pulls inside him.

A shotgun blast of recognition rattles the phone. “Ahhhhhh! My man! I
thought
that was Malinta’s phone number. Things must’ve worked out last night.”

The Cliff Drinker is paddling with a wrecking ball tied around his waist. Water sloshing at the neck, filtering salty into his mouth. “Errrrrr,” Deshler says.

Malinta’s head cocks, half-listening, half-burning a hole through his forehead.

“Well, I’m on my way to Miami for mozzarella testing. Help yourself to Old Man Findlay’s wine cellar. Just don’t touch the Dom Pérignon eighty-three.”

“Wouldn’t,” he says, faintly, “dream of it.”

“Perfect. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. And I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Thanks for the hospitality, Thurman.”

“Hey, what Mister Findlay doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now seriously, you’ve earned it.”

“Stop.”

The phone vibrates with Lepsic’s chuckle. “One last thing,” his voice slinks into a whisper. “Squeeze Malinta’s ass when she’s on top. Drives her wild.”

Dry air hisses through the phone. Malinta pours another coffee. She has a wrinkled, confused forehead. “That wasn’t Findlay, was it?”

“Thurman Lepsic.”

The space between her lips splits wider. “I dialed Findlay’s phone number. God, it’s weird that he’d answer. What do you think that means?”

“He seemed pretty friendly…again.”

She stands and tucks hair behind an ear. Bare feet pace from the sink, across the room, to the refrigerator. “He should be friendly, being your
other
boss and all.”

“You bet.” Dean swallows scratchy, selling himself hard on this lie, forgetting he doesn’t know what Malinta’s talking about. Playing along, nodding.
This is still more fun than parking cars
, he thinks.

“How can you sit there and not be a little freaked out by this? We’re talking about the same man who practically puts a tongue in your throat every time he sees you. The guy who pays the Beef Club waiters to keep your whiskey glass full, no matter what. First, he tells you to crash at the CEO’s penthouse. And now he’s answering that same CEO’s phone?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She waits, sips, and waits more.

“They’re
doing
it,” Dean says.

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

Deshler’s body shrinks, his knees pull together and arms wrap around his chest. Familiar chills arrive. The same lonely confusion from that first night he and his brother spent in separate foster homes.

Malinta’s face is upset, changing shades of color. She speaks with whip-snap arms and hands. “Sometimes you don’t act like a rising star. I mean, you
created
the Monte Cristo Burger, for God’s sake. It’d be nice if you at least pretended to be Bust-A-Gut’s golden boy once in a while.”

“Ohhh,” he holds this noise for a breath. Her last words punt away lonely sensations like a boot in the abdomen. “Oh, you’ll believe anything you read on the bathroom wall.”

“Look, I’ve never told you this before. I didn’t want to give you a big head.” She tops off his coffee. “But I’d never seen anything like it when you staggered into the Beef Club six months ago.”

Deshler looks at her in a twist of confusion.

“I mean, yeah, you were just some dipshit valet from downstairs and the place was packed with execs.”

“Why didn’t they just kick me out?”

“Remember what you said to Christopher Winters? I hadn’t seen the old retired bastard—
gentleman
—look so pleased in years. You walked around like you owned the place. Kind of sexy.”

“
The
Christopher Winters? The governor and the hamburger guy? The dude who invented the electric toothbrush?”

“God, he loved you. You’re such an idiot. I mean, how would you
not
think Clifford Findlay would get goo-goo eyes, too?”

Playing along, nodding. “That was so long ago. I don’t even feel like the same person. I hardly remember it.”

“Yeah, no wonder. You’re always drunk. Lucky for you nobody notices. The others are just as hammered.”

“I don’t—” he gives up in embarrassment.

“Remember that night you got in an argument with our accounting chief about the world’s most delicious sandwich?”

“Of…course.”

“I can’t believe he claimed the club sandwich was perfect. And, hah,” a fast hand covers her mouth to stop laughing. “And your response, I never told you, but it’s kind of a catchphrase around work now.”

Deshler’s fingernails ruffle his scalp, wishing this morning was over. He anticipates a cringe. Forgotten Cliff Drinking stories always get embarrassing fast.

“You told Greenie Bowling, the head accountant guy, that ‘compared to a Monte Cristo sandwich, the club tastes like crapped pants.’”

A breath of relief sneaks in. This story isn’t so bad. “Does that even make sense?”

“You tell me. In less than a month we were deep frying Monte Cristo burgers in fifteen test markets. And then, well,
boom!”

She smiles in a way that makes the room a few shades clearer. Her face graduates from faintly flirty to plain flirty. Deshler’s heart smacks. An ashy thought of kissing her reshuffles the information about Beef Clubs and executives and fried sandwiches.

“Oh, that old thing,” Dean mumbles. He suddenly cools down with the need to sleep. Lying, he quickly learns, is exhausting. “That was just an accident, you know? Anybody could have done…what it is I do.”

“Don’t be modest.” Before Deshler takes another hot black sip, her fingers are massaging his shoulders. “Lots of stuff comes about on accident. Bubble gum, thousand island dressing…”

“Thanks, that’s a big help.”

Malinta stops rubbing, leans over his shoulder and kisses his forehead. “Wow, you really are an idiot.”

He steadies himself and stands. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Fingers go shaky touching her hips through the robe.

Before Dean finishes speaking, Malinta pulls back, arms and hands darting again. “Oh, this again? Not so fast. I still haven’t forgiven you for letting Winters sink in his claws. What a jerk.”

“Easy, have some respect, that guy just died.”

“Duh, Roland. What did he say to get you on their side?”

“Side? Like a fight?”

“It’s bigger than a fight, dummy,” she says. Dean loses concentration when her robe unties a bit and showcases some thigh. “Don’t act like the slut of the hamburger world doesn’t know it’s a fight.”

“Slut?”

“Slut’s not a bad word.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Playing both sides of the Beef Club. Mister double agent.”

“Oh, crap,” he catches these words as they slip out. He turns the lie crank in his head and, “Sometimes I forget that stuff,” plops out.

“It works. You really saved your own ass coming up with the Space Burger and that whole cosmonaut thing.” Noticing Dean’s wandering thigh eyes, she cinches the robe in a yank. “You are shattering what used to be a friendly rivalry.”

“How me? Don’t blame me.”

“When you swung
back
to Bust-A-Gut’s side, I saw a change in management. Like, joy or something. That fried mozzarella burger is going to destroy Winters. It’s the next logical step. Plus, I’ve been working on projects of my own, you know?”

Gulping, head dizzy, he sits back down. “I need something to eat. I need aspirin. Or cyanide.”

“Do me a huge favor, Deshler. Come with me to the club tonight. Don’t drink, just hang out sober. I want to try an experiment.”

“I think it’d be best if I stayed away for a while.”

“Oh, mister responsibility, now? Just do it, come for me. Sober.”

“I’ll try. What time is it?”

“Like, three.”

“Shit, I’m late.”

Our tightly manicured anchor seduces the business-end of a camera.

“Welcome to
Cosmonaut Watch
. Big day for these heroes, so let’s just get down to the action, shall we?

“After safely splashing down near the Black Sea, the five stranded cosmonauts were welcomed home. A tickertape parade stretching the length of Moscow was held yesterday. In a ceremony that night, Russian Premiere Michael Medvedev gave the space travelers the nation’s highest honor, the Order of St. Andrew.

“The cosmonauts’ ordeal, which played out right here on national television and internet broadcasts, became the number-one program in America during Sweeps Week.

“According to Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburgers, the final contestant to guide the suit home, and winner of the contest, will be announced as soon as he or she is located. The company is having more difficulty than previously anticipated tracking down this hero.